


The Infinity Stones Series: The Avengers

by PhoenixAngel47



Series: The Infinity Stones Series [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Cannon to films, Fanfiction, If You Squint - Freeform, Might progress throughout the series, Re-write, Slight Loki/Paige, The Avengers - Freeform, The Infinity Stone Series, mcu - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-17 19:12:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11857878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixAngel47/pseuds/PhoenixAngel47
Summary: 'I have to get it all down,' she thought. 'All of it. They have to know. They have to know everything.'Paige Willows is faced with a delimma when she falls through a magic portal into the middle of a war with aliens. In a fictional city. In a different universe. With her favorite childhood superheroes. Why hadn't she moved to America beforehand?





	1. Prologue: Of Old Memories and New Revelations

**Author's Note:**

> This is Fanfiction. I, as the author, claim ownership of Paige, Danny, and Allison, as well as any events outside of the Marvel Universe. The rest belongs to Marvel Studios, as their name is on it. 
> 
> Thank you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I, as the author, claim ownership of Paige, Danny, Allison, and any events set outside of the mainstream plot. The rest belongs to Marvel Studios. 
> 
> Thank you! Enjoy!

Thunder rumbled, lightning cracking across the New York City skyline. The lightning illuminated a young woman with long, dark brown hair. She was sat at a desk, surrounded by drawings. Drawings of places and people, of strange creatures and even an eight-legged horse. There were papers crumpled up in balls that littered the desk and floor by her feet; a laptop was plugged in to charge near her elbow, and a single, dim, bare lightbulb lit up the small bedroom. The closet door was slightly ajar, a skintight body suit draped over the door and a pair of boots spilling out on the floor. The bed was unmade, sheets and blankets alike strewn haphazardly across the mattress, pillows knocked sideways. In the center of the bed was a cardboard box, the cardboard lid resting beside it. 

The young woman paid no attention to any of it—the mess, the box, the storm. None of it mattered. She was hunched over a leatherbound journal, furiously writing. Her fingers and wrist was cramping and aching, but she ignored the pain and powered through. 

'I have to get it all down,' she thought. 'All of it. They have to know. They have to know everything. Why I've done what I did. Why it has to happen like this.' 

She ran out of space on the page and turned to a new one, barely pausing in her writing. She knew her handwriting was sloppy and near illegible in some places, but she didn't have the time to make it perfect. She would have to leave soon, so she could find Steve and Natasha—she'd already spent too much time in her apartment as it was, and was quickly losing the hope of finding them in time. 

'But they'll need this,' the young woman thought to herself, writing faster. 'They'll need it to understand everything.' Lightning crackled, and all of a sudden, the rain let loose, pouring down to the earth in torrential sheets. Still, the woman paid no mind, writing even faster.

The lightbulb flickered. Once, twice. Then it stopped. The woman wrote even faster. Another flicker, followed by two more. Her hand was starting to seize up now. One more flicker, and then the light burnt out, plunging the room into darkness. 

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Natasha Romanoff found herself back in Paige's apartment for the fifth time that week. However, unlike the last four days, Natasha was alone. Clint had been pulled off for a reconnaissance mission in Germany. He didn't give details and she didn't ask. Natasha's green eyes scanned the blank, bare entryway leading into a small living area with a white couch and grey carpet to her left. The television was small and centered perfectly in front of the couch. The area was clean and clinical, with nothing on the walls or glass coffee table. Not even a blanket over the arm of the couch. To her right, a tiny kitchenette of the same appearance was nestled into the corner of the room. 

She took three deep breaths and began walking slowly through the room, heading to the door on the far wall. Against her better judgement, Natasha's gaze settled on the living room, where her mind conjured an image. Paige, eighteen years old, long brown hair tucked slopily into a braid that tumbled over her shoulder. Her bright green eyes had been so bright, smile so wide that her dimple was showing. She'd been so excited, rambling on about having her own place, away from the other agents and clear of Tony's shenanigans.

A pang of grief struck Natasha's heart again. It had been weighing on her mind and stinging at her eyes, threatening tears of sadness. It was an awful feeling, and Natasha had never experienced anything like it before. She'd felt something similar, back in the KGB, when her friend was eliminated. Maybe friend was too kind. The girl had been her ally, a distant partner at best. Natasha was never close with that girl, not like she had been with Paige. She'd also felt grief when Clint had been brainwashed. Still, she knew he wasn't gone, and she had been determined to bring him back. No, this was ten times worse—intense, and painful, and Natasha was so frustrated because she felt like crying all the time. And the Black Widow did not cry at anything, unless in character undercover. 

And yet, here she was, standing three feet away from the door to Paige's bedroom, blinking back tears for the tenth time in the past seven minutes, let alone the last week. The week that had been one of the most difficult ones of her life, and Natasha had seen a lot of difficult times. Natasha and Clint had spent the last week clearing out the rest of the apartment, sorting through Paige's things and cleaning in order to get it ready to be rented again. They'd removed photos, paintings, magazines, and an entire bookshelf. All pots, plates, cups, and food had been taken out. With another deep breath, Natasha set her sights on the door in front of her and took three steps forward, reaching out a not shaking hand to throw it open. 

She was confronted with a maelstrom of mess and memories, and all of a sudden, Natasha began to believe that this mission would be impossible, not without help, and was about to abort and turn tail. Paige's bedroom was filled with personal belongings, which made the job so much harder to face. These were things that she knew, and recognized, and remembered their origins. There was the oversized black sweater that Paige wore often when it got cold, draped over the foot of her messy, unmade bed. The black leather choker with a silver chain and moon pendant that Paige wore for the first month was sat on the bedside table. And on the windowsill was a tiny potted succulent, one that Bruce had brought back to Paige from India. The closet door was flung open, spilling shirts and jackets and the occasional dress. Shoes were shoved in the bottom. The curtains were drawn tightly, but the blinds were still open. Drawings littered the walls. Some were perfect and precise, drawn carefully; others, however, were smudged and sloppy, like Paige had been in a rush to get the images onto paper. Clothing and balls of paper speckled the floor, with pens and pencils added in. Jewelry was draped over the posts of the headboard on the bed. 

The desk was by far the messiest. Balls of paper, unfinished drawings, granola bar wrappers. There were pens and pencils and paints and charcoal. Books dotted the area. Some were new, others torn and tattered, and the rest in every stage in between. In the middle of the mess was Paige's laptop, plugged in to charge, as if she had stayed up all night on it—as she frequently did—and finally ended up having to plug it in before it died completely at around two in the morning. It looked as if Paige had left in a hurry, expecting to be back soon to clean it all up. 

Except she'd never be back. 

A glance at the clock told Natasha that she had been standing in the doorway for fifteen minutes now, trying to work up the courage to begin. She knew she couldn't leave. If she didn't do this, they'd send in some other agents who didn't respect or care for Paige's things, and that was unacceptable. Natasha would not let the last remainder of one of her family member's memory be tarnished. So, Natasha would complete this mission, and do so without crying. 

There were boxes for things that Natasha would keep, and trash bags for the rest. She started with the floor, throwing out the balls of paper and collecting the clothes in a few bags to take to Goodwill. Paige would have wanted that. She was always doing something to help those without anything for themselves. Natasha kept a few, such as the black sweater and the rest of Paige's favorites. The woman had worn them constantly, almost to the point that they were hideous and barely more than rags. When someone pointed that fact out, Paige would defend the clothes endlessly with blazing eyes and a suppressed smile. Natasha emptied the closet, piling clothes into the bags and shoes into separate ones. Any little trinket she found were tossed into a box.

Natasha then began to work on the desk area, starting with the laptop. She unplugged it and placed both the machine and the cord into a box. They were followed by the books, and then Natasha was faced with the task of sorting through all of Paige's drawings. She threw the unfinished ones out. Most were unrecognizable anyway. Natasha began stripping the walls bare, sorting the drawings into people, places, and things. Every single one was placed gently in a box, and Natasha began blinking back the tears again as she saw her own face, staring back at her. The drawing of her seemed to be shocked, but trying to hide it, and there was an IV in the far edge of the page. She recognized the hideous modern art on the wall over her shoulder in the drawing, and knew Paige had recreated their moment after the Battle at New York. 

Paige had been so young, recklessly charging into the middle of a battle with no training and no weapons. Natasha and Clint had trained that recklessness out of her. Or so they thought, apparently. But Paige. . . definitely wasn't herself that day. Going on and on about how it had to happen and that she wasn't meant to be alive. The way she ran headfirst into two different dangerous situations. The first Natasha had saved her from—but the second. . . Natasha's hands clenched into fists, crumpling the drawing of herself -some. Instantly, she began to smooth out the wrinkles and placed the paper in the box with the rest. Paige had been so stupid that day, charging in blindly and talking suicide, practically. 

She blinked back tears again. "Why, Paige?" She murmured, voice cracking and hoarse. "Why would you do this?" She then realized she was talking aloud to herself, staring at the box full of drawings. 

'Focus, Natasha,' she reprimanded herself sharply. 'Get the job done.' Natasha removed the jewelry from the headboard and stripped the bed of blankets and sheets. Pens and other loose objects were picked up and thrown away, and Natasha retrieved the vacuum from outside the door and swept the grey carpeting. Once that was done, Natasha used warm, soapy water and a rag to scrub the walls free of sticky tape residue and the desk from paint, pencil, and charcoal residue. There was a single, uncovered lamp on the corner of the desk, and upon flicking the switch, she discovered the bulb to be burnt out. Natasha searched for the lampshade, but found nothing, so she threw the whole lamp away. She scrubbed the headboard and foot of the bed, and began packing up. 

Natasha took the trash to the dumpster outside and deposited the boxes and bags of clothes in the trunk of her car. She went back inside to retrieve the vacuum and bucket to return them to the community janitorial closet in the building, before walking back into the bare, clinical apartment. Inside the bedroom, Natasha reminiced on how it used to be so full of life and color in comparison to the whites and grays that it existed as now. She did one more thorough check of the room, looking for anything that she missed, and realized she had not checked underneath the bed. 

Kneeling down on the floor, Natasha slid onto her stomach and peered under the bed frame. Her line of sight was blocked by a medium-sized cardboard box, complete with a lid and handle cutouts on the side. Curious, Natasha pulled the box out into the open and knelt on the floor. It wasn't anything really special—just a cardboard box. It wasn't particularly heavy, but there was something inside. Natasha removed the lid and set it aside. Some cash, a few passports, a couple of cell phones—one was even broken and shattered, and Natasha knew that one to be the phone Paige had been carrying on the first day they'd ever met. There were SHIELD files, of missions and marks. The last thing Natasha found in the box was a small, leather bound journal. Brows furrowed, Natasha picked up the journal. It was black leather, with the initials PMW stamped in silver in the bottom right hand corner. When she opened the cover, she was confronted by Paige's familiar handwriting that was half cursive, half script. It seemed to be an introductory letter of some sort, which confused Natasha. At the same time, writing an introduction to a personal journal seemed like such a Paige thing to do. Still, as she actually began to read, Natasha found herself struck dumb. 

 

'I'm sorry. I don't know who is going to find this first, but I suspect either Natasha or Clint will. I want to tell you that I am sorry for putting you through this. At this point in time, you probably don't understand why I left like I did. I promise I will explain in time, but for now, I'm sorry. If there was another way, believe me, I would have taken it instead. In order for me to explain everything, I have to tell you everything. But this journal shouldn't be a secret. Please, tell the others. Whoever is left in the aftermath. Make sure the rest of the Avengers know, and make sure they know that I'm sorry for hurting them, too. 

My name is Paige McKenzie Willows. As of right now, I am twenty years old. I am writing this before I go find Steve and Natasha. SHIELD is falling, and something bad is going to happen when I do find them. I don't know what yet, but I feel it. I've seen it, in my dreams. That's why I'm apologising, because I know it's unlikely that I will ever get to explain this in person. I'm not the person you think I am. I'm not human—not entirely, anyway, although I'm still not sure what I am exactly, either. The Stones have a mind of their own. I don't have time for this. I'm going to tell you—all of you—everything I know. But I know I can't just tell you the straight facts. You don't deserve just the bare minimum. I have to tell you everything from the very beginning, so you can follow my paths and hopefully understand the things I've done over the years. 

I'm going to go way back to the very beginning. I know we haven't known each other long, but you became a family when I never asked for one. That is why you deserve the truth. All of it. I'm going to tell you my stories, my secrets, and everything that goes along with them. I think you'll find these stories quite familiar. . .'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments? Criticism? All is welcome and appreciated. I began this series about four years ago and then dropped it. I recently re-discovered it, looked through, and had a cringe attack. I'm still in love with the idea, so I've rewritten it and posted it here, on FanFiction, and on Wattpad under the same user name. 
> 
> This is Phoenix signing off until next chapter.


	2. One: Of New Schools and Unexpected Portals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I, as the author, only claim to own Paige and any events outside of the mainstream plot. The rest belongs to Marvel Studios. 
> 
> Thank you! Enjoy!

My alarm woke me up at six-thirty in the morning, blaring out a myriad of Disney mashups. The one that really got me up and moving, however, was the mashup of Mulan songs, my least favorite Disney movie. A woman living in a repressed society, supposed to be seen and not heard, suddenly cuts off her hair and decides that in doing so makes her a warrior, capable of fighting a war. A war that, if she was discovered, would get her killed by her own captain, no less. Ridiculous, in my opinion. The story was too far-fetched for that time period. Add in a talking, fire-breathing lizard, a too human-like cricket, and a grudge-bearing horse, and I was done. 

And all for her family's honor, no less. 

I understood that honor was a big thing in China back then, but now, honor and family meant nothing. Pushing my thoughts on the movie to the back of my mind, I turned off the alarm and sat up, switching on the light and flinching at the sudden brightness. Long strands of dark brown hair fell into my eyesight, and I impatiently pushed it back behind my ear before swinging my long, pale legs over the edge of my bed. My back cracked loudly as I stretched, making me grumble. Mum wouldn't let me bring my old bed to the new house, and this new mattress wasn't broken in yet. 

Mum appeared in the doorway of my room. She was already dressed in a perfectly-pressed business suit, light brown hair pulled back into a sleek, professional bun. "Paige, I expect you to be up and ready to leave by now. I made that very clear last night. Am I understood?"

"I'm walking to school, Mum," was my response. "I'll take Danny, too. Just go to work." Mum's eyes narrowed, taking in my appearance. She frowned, then turned on the heel of her black pumps and left. I rolled my eyes and stood up before moving across my room to open my wardrobe. I hated this place. Over the summer, Mum had moved us—our tiny trio consisting of her, my brother, and myself—from London, England to Los Angeles, California. It was too hot here, too muggy, and everyone was freakishly tan. Mum insisted we leave the house I'd lived in my whole life, my school, and force Danny to leave his friends. To say I was your typical jaded, bitter seventeen-year-old girl was a bit of an understatement. 

Shaking myself out of my thoughts, I picked out my clothes and moved into the bathroom that I shared with Danny. He was twelve, and extremely angry about having to move. He hadn't spoken to Mum all summer unless one-word responses counted,that is. He was still "asleep," and I didn't feel the need to "wake" him up just yet. School didn't start until seven-thirty, and we lived a ten-minute walk away. I began brushing through my hair in an attempt to make the rat's nest I'd created last night in my failed quest for comfort more manageable. Once it was at an acceptable level of smooth, I separated a small section from my forehead, starting at my part, and began braiding it back. I pinned it in place and repeated the motion on the other side of my part before bringing the rest of my hair over my right shoulder and braiding it all into one. I changed out of my sleep clothes, consisting of an oversized T-shirt and a pair of shorts, and into a pair of black jean capris and a white tank top. On top of that I added an off-the-shoulder dark blue short sleeved shirt. I added some eyeliner to make my bright green eyes pop, and a black leather choker with an attached silver chain, a small moon pendant hanging from it. 

I left the bathroom with my sleep clothes draped over my arm, turning off the light and moving into my little brother's bedroom. "Come on, Dan," I said, hitting the light switch. "Mum's gone, so you can stop pretending." Danny sat up, pushing his unruly black hair out of his eyes. He looked exactly like Dad did, and I swallowed a bitter taste at the thought. 

"Thought she'd never leave," he muttered. I watched him stand up and move to his own wardrobe, pulling out a pair of jeans with holes in the knees and a faded blue T-shirt. 

"You realise it's like, almost twenty-one degrees out already, right? You're going to die of heat stroke before we get to school."

"Good," Danny said, chucking the jeans back in his wardrobe and pulling out a pair of basketball shorts. "Beats the torture-house. What's for breakfast?" 

I shrugged. "Dunno yet," I replied, turning to head downstairs so he could change. "But if you don't hurry up, I'm eating yours too." I stopped in my room to put the sleep clothes in my dirty laundry basket, grab a pair of dark blue ankle socks and my black, lace-up ankle boots and carried it all downstairs. Mum had made breakfast for us, like she always did, and left it under a warmer on the kitchen island. I sat down on one of the stools and put on my shoes before lifting the warmer off to see waffles. Chocolate chip waffles, which happened to be Danny's favorite. She was trying to indirectly get back in his good graces. I snorted and picked one up, tearing it apart with my fingers and eating a bite. The television remote was right beside me, so I picked it up and turned on the screen across the room. I began to lazily flick through the channels, periodically eating a bite of waffle and checking the time on my phone. 

When I finally stopped, it was on a Marvel movie—Captain America: The First Avenger. I loved Marvel movies. I always had, even as a little girl. Every new movie meant me begging Mum for money to go to the cinema to see it. I don't know why I was so fascinated with them, but I was. When Danny and I were younger, we'd put on the movies and act them out, going so far as to memorize certain lines. I missed those days. When we were happy. When Dad was there to temper Mum when she got in one of her power moods. When I still had friends. 

Danny walked down the stairs, into the kitchen, and said, "What do you think?" His voice perfectly followed Steve's lines, and he was holding his rucksack like one would a shield. I picked up the fork I was supposed to be using, aimed it at him, and pretended to shoot. Danny ducked behind the rucksack. After the sounds of gunshots on the movie stopped, I lowered the fork and Danny peeked out from behind the bag. 

I smiled at him. "I think it works," I replied sweetly, saying Peggy's lines along with her. Danny grinned, a rare sight to see in nearly three months, and dropped his rucksack at the end of the island before sitting next to me. Upon seeing breakfast, he rolled his eyes, but picked up a waffle and began eating it. We ate in silence, and while Danny put the used dishes in the dishwasher, I moved over to the door to check my own rucksack. I had some binders with notes and such from previous years. I had two textbooks, both bought in England to allow me to do extra studying in Latin and Biology. I also had my laptop, a calculator, and a Zippit pencil case that I'd had since Year Six. It was old and covered in graphite by now, but it still worked, and it was one of the only things I still had from my childhood. 

I checked the time, shoved my phone into my back pocket, and shouldered my rucksack. "Come on, Danny," I called. "We have to go." I heard the television shut off, followed by my brother's footsteps, and then I led the way outside into the damp Los Angeles heat. I waited for him to lock and close the door before we set off down the sidewalk, heading towards school. As I just moved, I didn't have an American driver's license, so unless Mum drove us, we had to walk. 

After several minutes of silence, Danny asked, "What'll American school be like, you think? Think we'll be in the same building?"

I shook my head. "Don't think so," I told him. "The school system here is weird. I'm Year Twelve, which they call senior year in high school. You're Year Six, which is what they call junior high. They're separate buildings, but they're right across from each other."

My brother groaned in disgust. "Ugh, so I'll be the new kid all by myself?"

I smirked at him. I'd be in the same situation at my school. "Been practicing your American accent, right?" I asked, elbowing his shoulder gently. 

"No. What about you?" He asked, trying to be smart. 

I cleared my throat and, in my best American accent, said, "Of course I have. You'll not only be the new kid, but the new British kid. I'll just blend in." Danny laughed and shoved his shoulder into me, making me laugh, too. The schools had come into sight, and I felt nerves and anger set back in. Why did Mum have to make us move all the way to America? It didn't matter now. 

"Paige?" Danny asked, voice quiet. I hummed in response and looked down at my brother. It was then I saw the fear in his grey eyes, how tense he was, and realized that he was only twelve, across an ocean and was about to be thrust into a bullpen all alone. "Can you. . . can you come inside with me?"

I dropped my arm over his shoulder and pulled him close. "Of course, Danny," I murmured. Together we walked into his building and into the office just inside the door. I made sure Danny got his schedule, which contained all of his classes, and even helped him find his first one. 

Standing outside the door, I waved at him and said, "Bye. I'll come get you after school, okay?" He nodded, started to walk inside, but then hesitated. Just as I was about to ask him what was wrong, he turned on his heel and flung himself at me, wrapping his arms around me in a hug and squeezing me tight. "Danny, what's up with you? It's not like I'm going off to war or something. I'll see you after school."

"I know," he said. "But mid-level kids are mean. Upper-level kids must be worse." I hugged back, because for all the times he got angry at me being able to practically read his mind, he was able to read mine this time. A second later, Danny pulled back, smiled up at me, and waved before turning back to head into his classroom. I watched him walk up to his teacher, hand her a slip the office had given him to get signed by all of his teachers, and then walk back to a desk and sit down. The boy next to him said something, and my brother replied and they bumped fists. 

"Mid-level kids are mean, huh?" I murmured, turning away from the room and beginning to walk back towards the exit. Out of curiosity, I pulled out my phone and checked the time. My eyes widened when I realized I had less than five minutes to get over to the high school, get my own schedule, and find my first class. I walked as fast as I could until I was out of the building, but began sprinting once outside. 

As I ran, I noticed that there weren't any other people about, and the road to my left was strangely empty. Something about it bothered me. The emptiness of the sidewalks I could logically explain: school was about to start, and all the kids were inside. Where I needed to be. The road, however, was something I couldn't explain. Los Angeles was a city, and cities were busy. I learned that in London. But morning work rush wasn't over yet, so why would the road be completely devoid of vehicles? 

Unfortunately, while my attention was diverted, my foot skidded on a pebble and sent me sprawling forward with a silent yelp. I threw my hands out in front of me to catch myself, but just before I hit the ground, I felt something tug my body forward. It was almost as if someone had grabbed my wrists and yanked them—but I had bigger problems now, because suddenly, I wasn't just falling. No, now I was twisting and tumbling through thin air without touching the ground. Flashes of blue practically blinded me, and the wind picked up until it was roaring in my ears, as if I was going very fast. I let out a small scream and squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block out the blue flashes. Suddenly, everything went dark. 

And then everything stopped entirely, and I was falling once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments? Criticism? All is welcome and appreciated.


	3. Two: Of Heroes and Alien Invasions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is Fanfiction. I, as the author, claim ownership of Paige, Danny, and Allison, as well as any events outside of the Marvel Universe. The rest belongs to Marvel Studios, as their name is on it.
> 
> Thank you.

I hit the ground hard, landing on my hands and knees, and I let out a small hiss of pain when I felt the stinging skin that I knew had probably been scraped. My rucksack hit the ground next to me, startling me, and when I looked down, I noticed I wasn't kneeling on the greyish concrete of sidewalk. No, this was the blacktop of a road. Cradling my stinging palms to my body, and slowly looked at my surroundings. Tall buildings, sidewalk cafés, overturned cars, smoking craters all around me. . .

Wait, overturned cars and smoking craters? That wasn't right. I started breathing a little faster, beginning to panic. I was no longer by the schools. In fact, I was no longer anywhere that I knew. I was somehow in a completely unfamiliar area, almost like I was in an entirely different city. Which, as I kept looking around, I started to suspect that I was. And that was when I noticed the things flying through the air at breakneck speeds, followed by the one building with a blue column of light coming off of it that even remotely looked familiar. I squinted at it, trying to make out the name on it, but at that current moment, I was forced to look away with something landed a couple yards away from me. 

Whatever it was, it was muscular with grey skin and covered in grey and gold metal armor, piercing yellowish-gold eyes, and a sinister a looking gun thing. It, oddly enough, looked just as familiar as the building I'd noticed earlier. What is it about this place and this creature that makes me feel as though I've seen them before? I broke out of my thoughts when the thing pointed the weapon at me, beginning to advance slowly. The panic set in, and I looked around for an escape route. It was at that point in time that I realized death was an actual possibility, and understood in that moment that I didn't want to die. I knew that even if I got to my feet and started running, it could probably shoot me before I got even three feet. I needed a distraction, and it looked like I had to think even faster than this. 

The rucksack. It was still beside me on the ground, full of binders and textbooks and my laptop. Heavy items. Items I could use against that thing. I slowly, carefully reached down and got a solid grip around the handle on the top of the bag, watching the thing advance. I'd only get one shot at this. I needed to move fast, and I prayed that I'd actually be able to pull this crazy stunt off. I waited, kneeling on the ground, hand wrapped around the handle of my rucksack, tense and ready. It got closer, and closer, and I waited, and waited, praying to any deity out there to help me. It was close enough. I needed to move. 

"God save the Queen," I breathed, the prayer so familiar that it slipped out. I moved so that my feet were under me. I realized that what I was about to do was crazy and absolutely insane, and if I missed, I would definitely die. Blood roared in my ears, running off adrenaline. The prayer died on my lips and was replaced with, "On second thought, forget the Queen. God save me!" The creature made some sort of weird, garbling growl, and gestured for me to move to a building to my right with the gun. I slowly got to my feet, lifting the rucksack with me. I took a deep breath, silently counted to three, and then quickly swung the bag around. It hit true, knocking the gun out of the thing's hands, but I let the momentum of the bag carry me, turning in a full circle and slamming the rucksack into the creature's head. It dropped, but I knew it wasn't out yet and I started to panic again because guess what? I didn't bother to plan that far ahead! Stupid! 

I fell to my knees next to it, tearing open a zip and plunging my hand into the bag in search of something—anything—I could use. I pulled out a pen, uncapped it, and jammed it into the only uncovered soft part I could find: mean, yellowish-gold eyes. The thing screamed, making me flinch, and I fell backwards, breathing hard, watching it writhe on the ground in agony. Greenish-blue blood dripped from its eye sockets. It was all over the pen, and all over my hand. I felt sick. I'd just blinded something without a second thought. 

'Focus,' a voice inside my head told me. 'You have to focus. Don't let emotions get in the way. You have to figure out where you're at.' 

Right. Right, I need to focus and figure out where I'm at. The building. I squinted at it again, trying to make out the name across the top. Stark. A tower with the name Stark on it. "Holy no way," I breathed. I looked down at the thing squirming on the ground. That armour was familiar, and a pit of dread started to form in my gut. That was a Chitauri warrior. An alien. In a city with the Stark Tower, which doesn't actually exist. But apparently it does, because it's right there, and now I'm questioning my own existence. I stopped, took a deep breath, and tried to work everything out. 

Flash of blue light. Falling through air. Like I was in some sort of portal. That should be impossible, but I just blinded a Chitauri warrior, who got here through a portal, so I think it's safe to assume that's what happened to me. I got chucked here, into a city. It's not Los Angeles. It's not London. This city has the Stark Tower, a fictional building, but this fictional building was located in New York City. I can safely assume that's where I am at. I fell through a portal and landed in a supposedly-fictional New York City that just happens to be in the middle of an alien invasion. 

Barely a minute had passed since I blinded the Chitauri, and I was startled out of my thoughts by a familiar-yet-unfamiliar male voice saying, "Good job, kid." I spun around, fear spiking again, blood-covered hand holding the pen and my rucksack in the other. I was met by the sight of three people. The first one to catch my eye was a large, muscular man in a tight suit made of some sort of protective spandex, colored red, white, and blue. He was carrying a large, round shield with the same coloring. The second was a woman. She had pale skin, emerald-green eyes, and short, shocking red hair. She wore a black catsuit, a familiar hourglass symbol on the belt around her slender waist. The final one was another guy, with large, muscular arms. He wore black pants and some sort of armoured vest, colored in greys and blacks with hints of red, a familiar eagle-like symbol on his chest. There was a fancy compound bow in his hand, a quiver of arrows peeking up over his shoulder. 

I was looking at three of my childhood heroes: Captain America, Natasha Romanoff, and Clint Barton. 

In one smooth movement, Clint Barton, otherwise known as Hawkeye, sunk an arrow into the blinded alien's head, killing it. He nodded at the rucksack in my hand. "What's in that thing?"

"Binders, textbooks, and a laptop," I replied without thinking. I was in New York City, in the middle of an alien invasion, faced by three Avengers. I think it was safe to say that I was not in the world I knew. I wanted to panic. In all honesty, it might've been better if I had started panicking, because then I would feel like a rational, sane person. Instead, I felt like a girl who had just been tossed through time and space, spit out in a fictional city, and confronted with a myriad of emotions on the subject. Unfortunately for me, my mind never worked like a normal person's. Even in a situation like this, where my instincts were screaming at me to panic, my mind was telling me to focus and think through everything. 

The only logical explanation was that I had been plucked up and somehow tossed into the Marvel Universe, the only possible place where something like this is feasible. The three superheros and overabundance of aliens confirmed this. Well then. 

I slowly stood up, lifting my rucksack with me. The three were still staring at me. I looked around, thoughts still whirring at full speed. My instincts said to find somewhere safe to lay low until this whole thing was over, but my brain said that I knew what was going to happen. I knew Marvel movies like the back of my own hand. I knew the settings, I knew the actions, and I knew the characters. Maybe I could help—ugh, but how? I wasn't trained for this! Sure, I knew self defense and had six years of hand-to-hand combat practice, but this was some next level stuff. Seriously, I wasn't going to be able to punch my way through heavily-armoured aliens. Not if I wanted to keep my hand unbroken, that is. And then I remembered: the Stark Tower was where Loki was. I knew the characters, spent countless hours getting into their heads, unraveling their personalities. If I could go straight to the source, I might be able to stop this! 

And yet, there's something telling me that I shouldn't mess with the sequence of events like this, not on such of a grand scale. . . 

And I realized I should probably say something to the three still staring at me. "Um, thank you, for saving me, I guess," I said, shoving that thought to the back of my head. I shouldered my rucksack and dropped the bloody pen. 

"Seems like you had that covered on your own," Natasha said. I shrugged, shifting impatiently from foot to foot. I needed to leave. 

"What's your name, kid?" Steve asked, snapping my attention off of my thoughts and to him. I hoped they thought I looked edgy because I was nervous from the attack. 

"Paige," I replied. "Um. . . I need to. . . find someone."

Clint walked closer, assessing me. I wasn't quite sure what his intentions were. Usually, when confronted with bullies, I could tell what they were going to do. What they wanted. I couldn't tell what Clint was looking for, but I knew I couldn't back down. I stared him right in the face. "Be careful, Kid," he warned me. I nodded. "Do you know where you're going?"

I thought about it briefly. "No, not really," I replied honestly. I turned on my heel and began to run in the direction of the Stark Tower, but shouted over my shoulder, "But I'm sure I'll know it when I see it!" I pushed myself to run faster, knowing the longer I took to get there, the less time I have to convince Loki of his mistake, and the more people die. I took a sharp left, jerking to the side just in time to avoid slamming into an overturned car. I leapt over a smoking crater in the pavement, my shoulder clipping a running civilian on the other side. It was dangerous, and I had decided to run directly to the source of it all. Of course I did. 

I don't know how long I ran, but I do know that by the time a loud, groaning noise began to emit from the portal above my head, my lungs and thighs were burning from overuse and I was struggling for breath. I knew I wasn't overweight, but I wasn't exactly the most fit anymore. I had to stop before my chest exploded, and a bad feeling in my gut told me I needed to see what was coming. My surroundings were once again very familiar, and I knew this wasn't going to be good. Still panting, I forced my tired limbs to move as I lifted my chin up to the sky, where the portal created by the Tesseract undulated, and waited for them to arrive. 

"Kid!" The voice of Clint Barton shouted at me from behind. "You need to get out of here! Now!"

My response came in the form of me slowly raising my hand to point at the portal, just as the large head of a Chitauri Leviathan slowly emerge from the portal. It was a huge, worm-like creature with grey flesh, sharp teeth, and spine-like armour. Oh, and it could fly. It was massive, too, more so than what the movie implied. I actually felt a spike of terror shoot through me. I think it was the first time I had felt fear since this whole freaky encounter began—and that was impressive. 

"Stark," Steve barked out from behind me, making me flinch a little. "You seeing this?" I didn't head Tony Stark's reply, seeing as I didn't have a communication link. However, I was very much aware of his response. 

"Seeing. Still working on believing," I muttered under my breath, very much aware of the superheroes behind me that might find it a bit odd that I somehow know their teammate's response without having never met any of them before. Well, as far as they knew, and I was hoping to keep it that way. The last thing they needed to worry about through all of this was a girl from a different universe who knew the future. 

'Focus,' my brain whispered, bringing me out of my thoughts. Right. Tower, Loki. I took off again, not bothering to look behind me at the three heroes. Despite my body's protests, I pushed myself to start running again, heading directly for the Stark Tower. A blast of blue energy whisked past my face, so close I could feel the crackling, searing heat on my skin. With a startled yelp, I jerked backwards, my heavy rucksack unbalancing me to the point I fell backwards and landed hard. Again. I had a feeling that this would be the thing today, me falling. It was a good thing, though, because several Chitauri warriors were blocking my path, and I knew I wouldn't get through them without some serious help. However, a few of them trained their weapons on me, ready to fire, and I instantly was hit with a refreshing burst of self-preservation. 

I started to scramble to my feet to run in the opposite direction, but— "Duck!" The command was so powerful that I instantly followed it, dropping back down to the ground and hurting my already scraped knees even more. Something whistled over my head, smashing into a few of the aliens before going back the way it came. I glanced behind me to see Captain America returning his shield to his arm. Right. Superheroes. I shouldered my rucksack and stood up, darting through the opening that had been created for me. I was so close to the Stark Tower. I couldn't stop now. I took a right and found myself face-to-face with the front door to the Stark Tower. Oh yeah, I actually had to find a way inside. Right. Okay. I reached out and hesitantly pulled on the handle, but no dice. Locked. Well, they're made out of glass, so. . .

I backed up a few feet and took off running before I could think about this, straight for the door. At the last second, I twisted my body and allowed my shoulder to take the brunt of the force as I completely smashed through the glass. I felt multiple small shards cut me, but the pain of the sting was lost to my adrenaline. I looked around, panting. Okay, now I'm inside, but how to get to the top? Would the elevator be working still? Logically, the answer was yes to that question, but I also knew that Tony Stark had created an artificial intelligence that practically controlled everything in this place. 

"Um, JARVIS? I need to get to the top of the Tower," I called, feeling stupid. AI's were few and far in between in my universe—and they were nowhere near the level of Tony Stark's work. 

"Identify yourself." It was at that moment that I came to a realization. JARVIS had the capability to access records on anyone and everyone, if I knew Tony. Therefore he could take my name and complete a background check more complete than probably any human had even a hope of doing. The next thing I realized was that I wasn't from this universe. He wouldn't have files on me. There was no way he'd get me up to the roof.

Still, I had to try. "Paige Willows," I said. 

There was a brief pause, and then, "There is no Paige Willows in my database." Figures. "Please remain where you are so that I may alert Sir to your presence." No! I didn't have time for this! I had no idea if Loki was even up there still—and my entire plan kind of hinged on him being there. If I didn't catch him now, then everything was done for. 

Suddenly, the elevator doors pinged open, making me jump. "Sir has ordered me to help you in any way I can, Miss Willows." Huh. Nice guy, Tony Stark could be. When he wasn't using his ego instead of his brain. I dashed into the elevator, the doors closing immediately behind me, and the elevator shot upwards, moving much faster than it probably should. Maybe JARVIS sensed my urgency—wait, was that even possible? I mean, Tony did program him with sarcasm, so maybe. It wasn't impossible. 

Dang it! Focus! Alien invasion! Loki! 

The two-minute ride felt like an eternity. There were too many scenarios running through my mind—if he wasn't there, the next best thing would be to get the scepter and try to close the portal. No, no, that wouldn't work—what if the council sent in the bomb anyway? Where would we put it then? 

The elevator stopped, the doors opened, and I ran out onto the balcony. I instantly froze, because Loki was there. Loki, in his gold and green armour, horned golden helmet, cold, flashing green eyes. . . oh frick, how am I going to change his mind? Whatever I was about to do, I had to do it fast. 

"Look at this!" Another voice bellowed, and it was at that point I realized Thor was here, too. They had been fighting. "Look around you? Do you think this madness will end with your rule?"

"It's too late," Loki called in response. "It's too late to stop it." I was still frozen, watching this like I had the movie. Except this wasn't a movie—it was real. I was really standing on one of the highest balconies of the Stark Tower, watching two godlike beings fight each other while aliens destroyed a city I'd only seen on TV. 

Thor shook his head. "No," he said. "We can. Together." I didn't see the knife flash before it was too late and was plunged into Thor's flesh. 

"Loki?" I said softly—too soft. It was lost in the wind that buffeted around me, blowing the loose strands of my hair across my face and roaring in my ears. At least, I thought I had said it too softly. 

The god before me slowly turned away from his position of looking at his injured brother. He grinned, and I knew I should've been scared, but all I felt was empathy. I didn't just know him, I was him. My dad wasn't who I thought he was. My mum—she loved me, but she couldn't look at me the same way. "So," Loki said. "Earth's Mightiest Heroes send a little mortal girl to try and stop me."

"They didn't—" my voice caught in my throat. "They don't know I'm here. But I don't have a lot of time. Please, please, think about what you're doing. There are families there—children, not so different from us." Loki's face twisted into a sneer, but before he could say anything, I continued on. "I know why you're so reluctant to stop this. I know who is threatening you. I know you, Loki Laufeyson."

"You know nothing, little mortal," Loki hissed in response. Great. So much for talking him down. 

I shook my head, matching his anger with sadness. "I know enough," I replied. "I know your world was torn apart. That you were denied what you believed was your birthright because you were lied to. I know you tried to show everyone how you could rule with thought and compassion. I know you felt betrayed when it was made clear you weren't even a contender for the throne. I understand the pain and the longing. I understand the rage burning inside you, Loki." He stalked towards me, looking menacing, but I stood my ground, looking up into his face. 

I don't know how long we stood like that, staring into each other's eyes. 

He lifted his hand, slowly, and brushed his fingertips against my cheek with a touch so light it was barely there. "And how is it," he began quietly, leaving his fingers by my face. "That you know my pain and rage, hmm? A young mortal girl."

I swallowed thickly, but not from fear. That one question dredged up so many memories that it was overwhelming. I wanted to cry and scream and yell and destroy, but I forced them back and said, "Because I'm you," I whispered. "My father was a murderer. A serial killer. Twenty-seven women were abducted, tortured, and killed, all in between my father taking my little brother and I to school. You've been thinking of yourself as a monster this whole time because of what you look like and who your father is. You're not. If that was true, then I should go murder people and follow in my father's footsteps."

Loki's face was unreadable. I drew in a deep breath and it shuddered on the way out. "I went in to see him once. After he was arrested and sent to prison. Mum wouldn't go, and we both refused to let my brother go. But I went. He still looked the same. . . on the outside. . . but I could see the monster within. The one he nurtured and fed with his actions and hate and pain." I paused to breathe again, searching for any hint of emotion. "I'm trying to help you, Loki. Because I don't see a monster. Not in you."

There was a moment of silence. 

And then he lunged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments? Criticism? All is welcome and appreciated. I started writing this series when I was fourteen, dropped it, came back and cringed. I really liked the idea and had a plot worked out, so I decided to try and fix this poor series.
> 
> This is Phoenix signing off until next chapter.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments? Criticism? All is welcome and appreciated. I started writing this series when I was fourteen, dropped it, came back and cringed. I really liked the idea and had a plot worked out, so I decided to try and fix this poor series. 
> 
> This is Phoenix signing off until next chapter.


End file.
